


assorted

by YankingAwry



Category: Girlfight (2000), Ocean's (Movies), Sherlock (TV), The Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M, MGM studios presents: what happens when an obsession with the Dynamic meets lazy work ethic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-06 19:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15202172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YankingAwry/pseuds/YankingAwry
Summary: sex scenes, improbable meet-cutes, canon divergences, etc. ranging across fandoms. part of larger stories that had loudly begun haunting my Documents folder. i've labelled everything neatly (and done quality control!) so you can check the chapter index if you want something specific. will update as & when i find something that needs exorcising.





	1. John and Sherlock: car sex

 

 

“Oh god,” John breathes. He’s balanced on his forearms, elbows digging viciously into the suede skin of the backseat, Sherlock’s knees hooked over his shoulders. It’s a delicate position to hold. “Oh my god,” and his stomach expands with an exhale, pressing against the Sherlock’s abdomen, touching the damp of his cock. “So we are. I mean.” He clears his throat. “We’re actually—which is to say—” _Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together._

Beneath, Sherlock ignores him. His hand reaches upward, blindly, to hold onto the overhead handle, but his grip slips. His arm falls awkwardly, curving to the floor. The interior light casts a sharp, orange light on their bodies. Sherlock is polished wood, all taut-seeming and painstakingly sandpapered. His eyes flick to John’s face, and then he looks away, swallowing. John would kiss his throat, but he’s afraid of collapsing entirely on him if he angles too forward.

Feeling quite useless, he huffs, “You could just. Hold onto me. If you—” Sherlock squirms down, and the head of John’s cock slips just a little deeper inside him—“ _haah_. Nngh.” John’s fingers clench tighter, restrain, _restrain_ , and he lets out a shaky breath, “—if you wanted to.” A beat, and then wordlessly, Sherlock wraps his hand around John’s bicep and gives it a squeeze. The hand travels up, rubbing John’s chest in patterns, and _Jesus_ , Sherlock is _soothing_ him- but his concentration is too divested to go into shock just yet, split between the balancing act and the pudding skin behind Sherlock’s knee and the tight, suction heat from Sherlock’s arsehole.

Sherlock clenches, and John groans.

“Stop thinking so much,” Sherlock finally speaks, voice hoarse.

“All these mixed messages.”

Sherlock’s wide smile is there and gone in shutter speed. He cups the back of John’s neck with one clammy hand, bringing him a little closer, and tilts his hips.

“What do I—how much—”

Sherlock’s eyes close, and the words come out rushed. “All of you. At once.”

“Uh—okay, okay—”

Against his better judgement, John leans forward and kisses Sherlock’s sternum, and straightens quickly.

“I’m going to—”

“Yes.”

John pushes in entirely. Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he nearly socks John in the face.

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock—”

“It’s _fine_ , I’m fine—” Sherlock’s chest is heaving, and he’s taking in harsh breaths through his nose. One hand is a fist resting on John’s collarbone, the other hand takes hold of the front seat headrest.

“ _No_ , it’s _not_ —”

“Shut up, John!” He snaps. “It’s normal, I was—expecting it. Research had suggested that the initial intrusion—” Sherlock bites down his lip. “Just—don’t pull out.”

John’s face is now level with his. Sherlock’s eyes close once more and his lips part. John can feel every moist exhale against his chin. This _feeling_ , of being inside Sherlock, the heady warmth of something closing in around his cock and tugging at the base of his stomach, _god_ —“You _expected_ it? Not good, Sherlock. Not good. It’s hurting you, we aren’t even using proper lube—”

“Please, John,” Sherlock says, his eyes still closed and his lips barely moving. John dips forward to kiss him, a bit angry. 

“Git,” he breathes into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock opens his mouth and kisses him back, swirling his tongue against John’s. John draws back to take Sherlock’s tongue with his lips, and sucks down hard. Sherlock lets out a series of small, muffled sounds, and the fist by John’s neck unfurls. Sherlock’s long fingers travel downward, and squeeze John’s nipple, rolling and tugging with his thumb and index finger. John grunts, shocked, and his hips snap forward of their own accord. He stills immediately, looking into Sherlock’s face, heart pounding.

Sherlock’s neck is arched back and his mouth is slack. “Oh.” His eyes meet John’s, wide and unfocused. “ _Oh_.”

“Did I—”

“It would appear so.” And then Sherlock laughs.

It’s a quiet, breathless little laugh. Sherlock’s eyes crinkle, all the while looking at John, and John feels his face and neck go warm.

“That’s good, then.”

“It is.” A beat, then—“What on earth are you waiting for?”

And yeah, okay, John didn’t really think Sherlock would be any different here than when he’s ordering half of New Scotland Yard off the (his) crime scene: surprise, impatience, two seconds away from doing the job himself—but Jesus, could you give a man a moment to just appreciate the view?

“First” John begins, “class,” he continues, “— _git_ ,” and he drives every word to a very specific home. Sherlock just grins and pants against his lips.

 

 


	2. John and Sherlock: post reichenbach, sex after a fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> area writer owes creator of em dash billions of dollars in royalties

 

 

The bedsprings creak faintly in the dark. Sherlock shifts so that he’s lying on his side and facing away from John. He brings his shoulder up, close to his ear, making a brittle fortress of skin and bone with his back. The mechanical clock on his bedside ticks steadily as the mattress dips a little, then a lot.

John puts a warm hand on the top of Sherlock’s track-pants. Sherlock screws his eyes shut and he stops breathing, trying to trap the smell of John’s sweat in his nostrils, and when John finally speaks it sounds disembodied.

“May I?”

Sherlock jerks his chin downward, once.

John’s hand moves up and slips under his t-shirt, brushing his ribs, holding him. Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he lets out an explosive exhale.

“Sherlock—”

“I—”

John removes his hand, and Sherlock feels a desperate laugh bubble in his throat because _that_ , that is just _not on_ , so he swallows and turns over, trying not to think about how clammy his fingers are from being curled into a fist for the better part of an hour. He takes John’s hand and places it on his hipbone.

It was a mistake, turning.

The moon hits John square in the face, like a searchlight. His lips are a thin, worried line, and his eyelashes cast smudged shadows on the crests of his cheeks. He squints at Sherlock, and Sherlock realises his own face must be in the dark.

“I’m sorry about—before—” John says. He shuffles closer, arm bending at the elbow as his hand stays firm beneath Sherlock’s. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, urgent, eyes roaming Sherlock’s face. Sherlock stares at him until John’s face abruptly withers, and suddenly John’s forehead drops to his collarbone, his breaths escaping soft and wrenched. Sherlock’s neck feels _hot_ and _wet_ and he breathes, “John—” He releases John’s hand to pull him closer, until their knees knock and their bellies are flush against each other. “ _John_ ,” Sherlock nearly snaps, his voice a fraying thread, “it’s all right—” and John gasps into his t-shirt, exhaling in two parts, first slow, then harsh.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, his arm around John’s waist, fingers digging into John’s side. “I promise—” John takes a stuttering breath, and Sherlock breaks off.

“It’s just—I didn’t _think_ —”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. They are nose to nose, John’s eyes are wide and starry.

“And I—I love you, so _much_ —”

Up, the moment is hoisted into weightlessness, suspended by moonlit threads, revolving as the slow clogs of sleepy clockwork. Sherlock’s cheeks are burning white-hot and the cavernous spaces in his chest expand to twice their size, making room.

“Oh.”

John shifts a little under his arms, and blinks worriedly at Sherlock. His eyelashes glint, still wet. “That—that was shit timing. I’m not playing it like a trump card, or a justification—the opposite, I’m trying to say that makes what I did worse—”  

 “Yes. I—yes, I understand.”

“Right, okay.” A beat, then John says, very softly, “Thank you.”

Sherlock swallows, and it makes a thick, clicking sound. Embarrassed, he clears his throat, and says, “Dull.”

“Sorry?”

“Gratitude,” Sherlock says, watching the way John’s lips part, just the slightest. “Cufflinks, tie pins, the like.”

“Ah.” John licks his lips, and when he smiles this time, there’s a bit of teeth to it. “Well. It’s what ordinary people do, we’re very good at gratitude.”

“ _Ordinary_ people are rubbish at gratitude. You’re—not bad.” John sucks in a breath, and releases it with a soft laugh. His nose brushes Sherlock’s, and his lips press together, ticking upward. Sherlock wants to kiss John’s smile, so he does. John’s lips give way to his, and Sherlock kisses his upper lip, then his lower lip, and then presses a quick, hard kiss to the corner of John’s soft, neat mouth. John lets him do this, and hums as if he is pleased and wants nothing more than for Sherlock to keep doing this, and that makes Sherlock feel _brave_ , so he says “John, I—I’m tired of us being _unhappy_ —” and John cups Sherlock’s neck, kissing him rough and clumsily. Sherlock squirms as John squeezes his hip. He shifts John’s hand to the straining fabric above his crotch, and John draws away from the kiss with a choked sound.

“Can I—is this—”

Sherlock nods, rubbing his hand up and down John’s arm, “Please,” and John shudders and slips his hand down Sherlock’s track pants. His hand is large and warm and a little callused, and he cradles Sherlock’s cock very, very gently. Sherlock tries to push up and into his grip but it’s not nearly tight enough, so he licks a stripe up John’s throat and enunciates, “I’m _not_ going to break. Bring me off, for god’s sake—” John huffs a small, breathless, laugh as he begins to twist his fist up and down Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock arches his neck and grits his teeth and tries not to make any incriminating sounds, but John’s free thumb is pulling at his pursed lips, and Sherlock’s eyes close when he slips an index finger inside.

Face burning, Sherlock pushes harder into his fist, and sucks down on the pad of John’s finger. When John removes it, it makes a _pop_ sound that has John marveling, “ _Jesus_ —” He reaches under Sherlock’s shirt to squeeze a nipple, and Sherlock can feel the damp of his own saliva. This—the slickness of his precome on John’s palm, John’s shallow pants against his cheek, “Sherlock— _god_ , you have no idea—you are _so_ —fuck—that’s it,” the way his awareness has been stretched to tautness and _blazes_ with smell, taste and _touch_ —has him stumbling over the edge.

 

 


	3. John and Sherlock: s2 e3 alternate AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what if sherlock had decided to let john in on his plan to thwart moriarty? what might that have looked like? this is how it might have started off

 

 

John’s chin hits the hood of the police car. He grunts, and turns his face to Sherlock. The inspector cuffs their wrists together. The Commissioner emerges, descending the front steps of 221B, head held high and a hanky stuffed up his nostril. Sherlock looks at the man, then back at John, and feels himself smiling even before he decides to.

“He won’t be pronouncing his nasal occlusives for a while.”

There’s a clink of metal and John is squeezing his hand, his thumb pressing down warm and firm on Sherlock’s knuckles, and he says, “ _Just_ —if you’re going to do something stupid, you should know—ah. I want to help. Moriarty isn’t winning this.” His voice is soft but his eyes are fierce and Sherlock swallows because—well.

“I—yes. Thanks. Thank you, uh. John.”

“—and tell him he’s a right divvy—no, no, not verbatim—I want him to know what I feel, not where I grew up—give me a sec. Sherlock, hey. Listen.” Lestrade puts one hand on the speaker of his phone, and says, “I’ll see to it both of you get priority processing, you should be able to post bail within the hour.” He grimaces, then adds, “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock stares at Lestrade till he elects to go away.

When he turns to John, John is looking at him in a determined, unhappy sort of way that reminds Sherlock of the smell of chlorine.

“I wanted to illegally escape police custody away five minutes ago,” he admits quietly, as they finally settle into the back of the police car.

“Okay,” John says.

“Without you,” Sherlock says.

John’s head snaps up, and his face—

“Because I didn’t want to compromise your safety,” he’s talking fast now, because maybe the faster he talks, the quicker John’s face stops being like that, “because I thought it was something I needed to do alone, because if Moriarty is two steps ahead and I’m one behind that means I need to catch up by _four_ and you don’t slow me down, you _don’t_ , the _opposite_ , but every minute I’m with you—”

“I was on my way to a pub, _alone_ , when he kidnapped me and put me in that fucking bomb vest-”

“I know, I know, I’m trying to tell you—I wanted to run away without you and I would’ve been wrong, because he wants me alone. He wants me to be alone. John, do you realise? I just realised that when we were handcuffed, outside, pushing on six minutes ago.”

John says, “We’re better together,” and he isn’t even looking at Sherlock, he’s staring out the window. He’s angry.

“And you can be sure Moriarty knows that,” Sherlock murmurs. Then, he says, “I’m going to stand trial.”

“ _What_ —”

“It’s the only way. The entire circus is out to condemn me John, and they’re not going to stop until every single one of his lies are dismantled. This game started with the media and it has to end with it—”

“But you said, you said it’s playing right into what he wants—”

“And he knows I know it’s what he wants. He’s trying to play me, John. He’s trying to play you against me.”

John startles. Astonishingly, he isn’t feigning it. “Me?”

“Obviously, John. My glaring concern and demonstrated willingness to lay down my life for you.” Sherlock keeps from rolling his eyes, but only just, and waits for John to catch up. They need to plan their next move.

He looks out the window, and a low-intensity sense of satisfaction moves fluidly through his body as if being fed directly through an IV drip, making his cheeks tingle. Moriarty has miscalculated. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it ends with declarations of love in court with sherlock on the witness stand, obviously


	4. Mark and Eduardo: hotel bar, mark POV, pining

 

 

It starts when Mark gets up and sidles two seats closer, right next to Wardo, takes a look at his drink (cranberry vodka, topped with one of those neat paper umbrella you only get by request: oh, Wardo) and tells the bartender, “I’ll have the same as my friend, please.”

Wardo, who’s been pretending to totally not give a shit that the guy he tried to sue for six hundred million dollars is within pissing distance, lets out a neat, furious exhalation of laughter. “Friend,” he repeats. Drama queen.

“My optimism knows no bounds tonight,” Mark informs him, because he is very drunk and planning to get drunker with—with his once-best friend (only friend [the only one he had really trusted, certain and bone-deep, a visceral part of him, like blood or marrow or something appropriately maudlin]). “Just get a drink with me, don’t be such a fucking prude.”

“I feel like we should have lawyers present for this,” Wardo says, and after he downs his shot he doesn’t move, doesn’t inch his fingers towards his wallet or phone or promptly fuck off.

“Yeah,” Mark says, takes a sip of his pink and shining cranberry vodka and then another, because fuck, he really likes fruity alcohol. “That wouldn’t kill the buzz at all.”

“It would be a mercy killing.”

Mark grins, looks up at Wardo and doesn’t bother to hide it: what the fuck does he have to lose? He misses him, he misses him so much: from tomorrow it’ll be quarterly emails, terse and cold, every Sincere Regards a pointed Fuck You, confirming shareholder meetings and letterhead redesigns, but tonight, Mark is drunk, and he’s lonely, and he just spent half an hour with a bunch of Silicon Valley groupies draped over every square inch of his premium suite, and one of them was telling him about her economics course and how she’d love to intern at Facebook during the semester break and all Mark could think was: _Wardo’s doing a PhD in economics at Yale right now. Wardo’s at this hotel right now. Wardo._

“Tell me,” Mark says, “about how Reinhart and Rogoff are jackasses and how Stiglitz is the only shining beacon of integrity in these trying times.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Wardo says suddenly, trying to peer into his face. “What is your deal? Can’t we just carry our—our irreconcilable differences to our graves and spend the rest of our lives hating each other? Why are you trying to complicate this?”

“As unused as I’m sure you are to people taking an interest in your opinions or thoughts or generally anything you may have to say, I’m not trying to screw you again out of your equity stake, Wardo.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Mark says, flatly. “I miss talking to you.” Jesus. When he thought he didn’t have anything to lose, he’d tentatively put his dignity in escrow. It takes a bit of remembering, a mental elbow shove, every few seconds _: you’re drunk, Wardo isn’t._

Wardo looks hard at him for a long moment, and then says, “Reinhart and Rogoff can eat my ass,” and he takes a breath the way only someone who’s stated the hook of their thesis and has five points of substantial argumentation to make can.

After that, Wardo gets very drunk.

He talks, a lot: Mark tries processing everything he’s saying about the inherent instability of financial institutions and why globalisation cannot benefit the most vulnerable unless governments around the world adopt radical cushion protection policies, but his eyes are drawn, time and again, to Wardo’s lips.

They had their weird, co-dependent symbiosis at university. Mark would code, Wardo would watch. Wardo would talk, Mark would listen. Mark stared a lot at Wardo’s lips back then, too; and then Wardo would say something trite, like _Earth to Mark!,_ and Mark would resurface and look into Wardo’s eyes, feeling like he’d just removed noise-cancelling headphones after seven hours of being wired in. Wardo would make some joke about feeling hurt at being tuned out, except Mark could tell he really _did_ : feel hurt, that is. In retrospect, when you have a face structurally incapable of conveying emotion, how do you say, “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you’re important to me” and expect to be believed? Ostensibly he could’ve gone with, “I was just thinking about kissing your perfectly proportioned lips,” but Mark’s always fallen on the particularly sickening side of 'coward'.

“You’re such a dick,” Wardo says, out of nowhere, as if concurring with his thoughts.  

Mark startles, then tips his glass into his mouth: it’s empty. He pretends to swallow anyway. “That is the general consensus.”

“Don’t give me that,” Wardo says. His leg brushes against Mark’s, and oh: Mark’s missed this too. He misses Wardo squeezing his neck, bumping his elbow, brushing Mark’s hair away from his forehead and telling him to get a haircut. He acts as if he’s tipping the glass into his mouth again, and deliberately lets the cold edge bite hard into his lip, savours the grim functionality of it. _I miss the way you used to touch me_ , Mark doesn't say, because he’s drunk, and Wardo's drunk too, but very good at drawing lines, and that's the kind of line that either gets you punched in the mouth, or left drinking alone in a Hilton hotel bar at 2AM.

 

 

 

 


	5. Diana and Marisol: post canon, conversation

 

 

“So, what?” Marisol insists, jostling Diana with the side of her backpack. “He still likes you? What did he say?” Diana shrugs, feeling a dumb smile coming on that has absolutely no business being anywhere near Marisol’s line of sight. “ _Diana_.”

“What.”

Marisol jumps in front of her theatrically, curls bouncing. “I’m dying here. You know I’m dying here, right?”

“Yeah, he still likes me. What kind of a man do you think he is?”

“A _fine_ man,” Marisol sighs. She puddles onto Diana’s shoulder, leaving Diana to open the locker with only one hand. “You’re lucky. Not all men be like that! Veronica’s dad started hooking up with a stripper or somethin’, and her mom got so mad. She beat him up, basically strung his ass from the balcony, and he decided, shit, I’d rather pay alimony than look my neighbours in the eye after that.”

“Damn,” Diana says, impressed. She jolts Marisol upright with a shove, and stuffs the physics textbook into her bag. “That’s legit.” How the hell had Veronica ended up her stinky skanky self, with a mom like that?

“My point,” Marisol stresses, “is that men don’t want to feel insecure about women, you know?”

Yeah, Diana knows. She presses her lips together, hard, feeling the words resist against the flesh of her mouth like something ripening; like a mouth guard slick with saliva, pushing past her teeth. Then: “After I won, he thought—” She pauses. “He thought _I_ stopped liking _him_.”

Marisol’s mouth drops open into a small, lip-glossed ‘o’, and she wails: “ _Diana!_ ”

“Yeah,’’ Diana agrees, smiling in spite of herself.

 

 

 


	6. Danny and Ryan: post canon, conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small attempt at correcting steven soderbergh's war crimes, screenplay format. though yes, any galaxy brain will tell you it's really rusty & basher who are meant to be.

 

 

INT-- A BAR IN KOLKATA -- NIGHT (ONE YEAR LATER)

 

RUSTY finishes his drink, turns to the man who’s just taken a seat by him.              

 

RUSTY

_Bhai, main ek ghante se yahaan daroon_

_peeke_ _peeke_ _thak gaya_ —oh, shit.

 

DANNY

                                                                                                         Well hey, I’ve missed you too.

                                                                                                         [to the bartender] _Do_ dry martinis.

DANNY slides an envelope across the bar top. RUSTY opens it, plucks out the airplane ticket with two fingers, never looking away from DANNY’s face.

 

RUSTY

                                                                                                         Tell me you didn’t blow through 19 mil

                                                                                                         in one year. Tell me you don’t owe,

                                                                                                         owing’s the worst—

 

DANNY raises an eyebrow: _for real?_   RUSTY shrugs, now grinning, finally looks down: a one-way trip to Cape Town, South Africa. 

 

RUSTY

                                                                                                         What’s the job?

 

DANNY

                                                                                                        I bought a bungalow in Cape Point, four

                                                                                                        thou square feet, beach side. Guy threw in 

                                                                                                        the vineyard for free; his wine’s shit, he’s

                                                                                                        been losing money on the whole operation

                                                                                                        for a decade, but you know. The man said

                                                                                                        ‘free’, it’s the principle of the thing—

 

RUSTY

                                                                                                         [impatiently] What’s the job, Danny.

A beat, then—

DANNY

                                                                                                         There is no job. 

 

RUSTY waits for the punchline. Then—

RUSTY

                                                                                                          I don’t understand.

 

The bartender passes over two dry martinis on paper napkins. DANNY knocks back his drink, blots the corner of his mouth with a thumb. RUSTY watches, own glass untouched.

 

DANNY

                                                                                                          Don’t you? I did say.

                                                                                                          [smiles, soft] I missed you.

 

RUSTY smiles disbelievingly into his drink, then looks up at DANNY.

 

 RUSTY

                                                                                                            Yeah?

 

DANNY meets his gaze: open and honest and blazing. RUSTY’s eyes widen.

DANNY

                                                                                                             Yeah.

 

DANNY shifts his hand across the bar top. A beat, then RUSTY edges his pinky to the edge of DANNY’s hand. Hesitates. DANNY closes the gap. RUSTY stares at the contact, then exhales, hard. Reaches over to the envelope with his other hand, tucks it into his suit jacket. DANNY is glowing, looks at RUSTY like he’s a perfect blind spot, or a safe clicking open, or a roulette ball coming to rest on exactly the right number, or the sum of all those things, but more—

 

DANNY

                                                                                                            Bartender? Yeah, we’d like the bill.

 

 


End file.
